Dear reader, l will let you into a secret. Over the Winter my Cricket trousers have shrunk. There is absolutely no doubt about it, the whites that fitted almost properly last September are now a less than generous stretch around my midriff. I did wonder if our washing powder could be to blame for this occurance or whether the North West Leicestershire laundry fairies had been having some fun at my expense, but the mystery remains unsolved. I did mention it to my good lady and all she could say was something about ‘Too Many Pies’. Perhaps I will ask her to expand on her theory when I am less busy.


 It’s not just my whites that are less than regulation size, my bat appears to have suffered a similar fate. In my minds eye I can see all those dashing square cuts I played last year, the numerous crunching off drives, the effortless flicks off my pads, as well as the angular defensive shots I brought forth when it was time to give the fielders a breather. Now the middle of the bat appears to have disappeared, taking all the red marks of the face of my bat towards the edges of the blade. The Goweresque timing appears to have deserted me and left behind just ugly swipes across the line.
 

I thought I could at least rely on my fielding prowess to survive in tact but, alas, this seems to have let me down. As expected the hands have softened over the Winter but the famed dancing feet that move me toward the ball have been set in post season concrete. Certain power shots played in the nets by those less afflicted than myself have led to me diving for cover rather than swooping to stop the cherry or catch it in a Jonty Rhodes style.


 With two thirds of my game is disarray it is just as well to report that my bowling appears to have made it through the worst of the Winter in reasonable order. There is a comforting lack of spin, flight or guile in my efforts that is so reminiscent of last year. The way I appear to have been bowling the boys into form on a Thursday is not only reassuring to me but absolutely good for the morale of the Everards League boys.

 
 There is one final area that I have yet to bring out of hibernation and, to be fair, it is something I won’t know about until the serious stuff actually starts. You see I pride myself on my ability to consume the cake on offer at tea time, preferably Lemon but not always, and I would hate to think my ability to eat the Kibworth equivalent of Mr Kipling into house and home has been diminished in any way during the close season. Come to think of it, is that the reason my Cricket trousers don’t fit any more?